


State of Dreaming

by Rovioletlily



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Characters to appear later on, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, No really poor theon, Physical Abuse, Poor Theon, Ramsay is his own warning, Tags to be added, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2018-12-22 04:38:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11959887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rovioletlily/pseuds/Rovioletlily
Summary: Then suddenly, Theon is gasping for air, writhing on the bed that he lies on - and when he bolts upright, he realizes that he must be dead -he has to be dead- because Robb's blue eyes are staring right back at him. It's impossible, it has to be a dream -Because the last time he ever saw Robb Stark was when he sent him away to the Iron Islands. Because the last time he ever had a whole, healthy body was a century ago. Because the last thing he remembers is blindly lunging towards Ramsay Bolton, a knife gripped in his weak hands - and then falling, drowning,dying.Somehow, Theon Greyjoy is balancing between hauntingly familiar realities -but in two very different timelines.





	1. ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **OR: A story where Theon is soon caught up in two different realities and timelines, before he realizes that he's been given a chance to change his fate - no matter the consequences.**  
>     
> The first few chapters are mainly Theon struggling to understand what's happening to him, so the plot moves about as fast as someone would to save Ramsay from falling off a cliff. (lame humor, I know XD)

**ONE**

Theon raises his head, eyes rimmed red, as Jeyne whimpers and cries as quietly as she can. Something hot coils low in his stomach, until he feels as if he might be sick. Words echo around him as he tries to push the simmering hatred away -  _Reek, Reek, it rhymes with weak -_ but the revulsion coursing through him shakes those thoughts out of his mind.

He's seen Ramsay torture, rape, and murder countless girls; he's seen what the Bastard of Bolton does. But seeing Jeyne's big, brown eyes swimming with tears, with Ramsay's mocking voice in the background: "How lovely you are,  _Arya Stark,_ " sends him balancing precariously between obedience and rebellion. His remaining fingers curl and uncurl helplessly as he stares at Ramsay's sleeping body, then at his new wife's shivering form. 

"Theon - please, Theon - " Jeyne begs, her own hands wrapped around herself. " _Please_ \- " 

 _Jeyne, Jeyne, it rhymes with pain,_ he almost says, but thinks better of it. "I can't - " he says hoarsely, and she squeezes her eyes shut tightly, the tears making twin tracks down her face. "I'm sorry." The apology wrenches at him inside, as the familiar revulsion rises up again, battling with Ramsay's voice in his head.  _Reek, Reek.. it rhymes with - it rhymes with - no -_

"He's going to kill me," she sobs, her eyes pleading desperately with him. "He's going to get tired of me, and then he'll hunt me down like he did to the others -  _Theon, please -_ "

"I'm not Theon," he whispers quietly, but she doesn't hear him. Slowly, he touches his own chest, feeling the lacerated cuts sear into his heart.  _I learned that lesson a long time ago, in the dungeons._ Still, despite this, he can't shake off the self hatred that's now spiraling through him. In a past life, he once knew Jeyne as a mindless, giggling friend of Sansa - but no. Reek knows only Ramsay.  _Reek knows only -_

"Theon _,_ " Jeyne whimpers, her voice cracking and fragmenting. " _Theon, save me -_ "

_Reek - it rhymes with meek, it rhymes with freak - it rhymes with -_

" _Theon..."_

Neither of them sleep for the rest of the night - he huddles on the ground, her words surging through his mind, and Jeyne continues to cry, the desolate sounds ringing around the room. As a distraction, he counts what remaining fingers and toes he has left, sharply aware of every fresh injury. When the new day dawns, Ramsay is the only one who gets up with a smile on his face. 

Theon shrinks as his master sits up slowly, his eyes first flickering towards Jeyne, who has nodded off into a fitful, half sleep, then to Theon himself. "Reek, why are you not back at the kennels?" he asks, his voice still thick with sleep. There's no malice, or cruel delight in his voice, but his gray eyes are already beginning to gleam. 

"S-sorry, m'lord," he says automatically. "Last night - you said not to leave until you ordered me - and then you fell asleep - after the - after - "

Ramsay throws the candle holder on the nightstand towards him, and he resists the instinct to duck, letting it hit him on the chest and fall to the ground. "You don't expect me to listen to your useless stammering, do you?" Theon lowers his eyes and listens as he walks around the room, changing into last night's clothes. Uncharacteristically, Ramsay remains silent - and it's because of this that Theon can sense the change in Jeyne the moment she wakes up. The steady breathing shifts into a frantic gasping that she tries to conceal, in vain.

Ramsay catches on quickly and walks back to the bed. "My lovely wife," he greets her, his voice tinged with glee. "Did you have a good night's sleep?" 

She fearfully mumbles something, and Theon listens with a dull heart as Ramsay slaps her for not speaking clearly.  _It's her fault. She should have talked clearly,_ goes the same voice inside his head.  _If she would only obey him better, then she wouldn't be hurt -_ but he knows the truth inside.

His eyes fall on the knife lying discarded on the ground. Images flash through his mind as he remembers Ramsay ordering him to cut his wife's clothes off. Images that he tries to bat away and forget. His whole body burns and aches, and in the background, Jeyne's wordless cries gnaw at him unrelentingly.

And suddenly, in a mad surge of desperation, he begins to pull himself towards the knife. 

Ramsay is still mocking Jeyne, his attention solely fixed on the miserable girl. Theon crawls as quickly as he can towards the knife, one hand on the ground, the other gripping his dirty, torn tunic that he wears. He keeps an eye on the two of them as he drags himself, and he's almost to the knife when everything falls apart. 

Jeyne's eyes dart towards him, and she lets out a soft gasp. Ramsay turns, opening his mouth for another snide, taunting comment, when he sees Theon crouching, frozen... gripping the knife. 

"Reek," he breathes, and he sounds so surprised - so shocked - that the same desperate determination prompts Theon to rise to his feet, shakily, but with as much speed as he can summon. Then, he surges forwards, his weak hands gripping the knife, pointing it at Ramsay. 

But just as he's almost onto him, Ramsay sidesteps easily, without even looking concerned. _Of course_. He goes stumbling forwards as Ramsay lashes out, his foot slamming into Theon. "Reek!"he screams, and his tone is distorted with rage.  _"Reek!"_

The knife slips slowly from Theon's nerveless fingers as he tries to stand up, his eyes meeting Ramsay's before he looks away. The brief emotions that raced through his body before have vanished, and now there is only a blind terror spiking through his blood. _R_ _eek, Reek, it rhymes with meek -_ but he _isn't_ meek, he tried to attack him - 

Ramsay forces him back down, kneeling to look at him from eye level. His mouth is pursed so tightly there's only a thin line - and his eyes.. his eyes are shards of fury, pure rage radiating from every inch of him. 

"You tried to attack me, Reek," Ramsay points out in a detached, controlled manner, right before his fist slams into Theon. "You  _dared_ to attack me - you  _dared_ to attack your master? You are  _nothing,_ nothing without me,I  _created you_ \- and you  _still_ attacked me." Theon feels something inside of him crack as Ramsay hovers over him, punctuating each sentence with a violent blow. Jeyne is whimpering something, but her words are faint.

His master rarely prolongs such a beating - he prefers to use his 'friends' for less delicate means of torture. It is only when Ramsay wields the flaying knife or when he grips the leather whip that he chooses to drag out the torture. At one point, he tries to close his eyes, but Ramsay backhands him sharply. 

Everything fades away, until there is only Ramsay kneeling over him, his own fists dripping blood - Jeyne's cries are gone, and the room around them blurs. "Kill me," he rasps, and for the first time, he is utterly shaken by the pleading in his own words. The harsh truth confronts him in Ramsay's wild eyes. There is nothing else in the world that he desires. There is only death that he wishes for - a sweet, pure death.

The bitter reality is that he will be free only when Ramsay dies -  _but not truly free._ There is no one left in Westeros that cares about what happens to him. Only hatred and disgust will greet Theon Greyjoy - to expect another reaction is pure stupidity. He is trapped, bound forever by his past mistakes. As Reek he is broken, and as Theon he is a backstabber, a Turncloak. At this point, death is a mercy.

"Kill you?"

Ramsay's voice pulls him back from his bleak thoughts. The man finally smiles at him, his lips pulled gruesomely up in a mockery of a grin. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he breathes quietly, tilting his head down at Theon. Then, with a bloody hand, he cups one side of his face, his fingers disturbingly gentle.

"You are so stupid, Reek."

There is a sinking in his chest as Ramsay forces him to look directly at his face. "You don't die until _I_ say you do," he snarls, his hands now wrapping around Theron's neck. Weak, emaciated, and dizzy with pain, he barely struggles against him. "You're _mine,_ Reek, until I'm dead. Then I don't give a damn. Then we can both rot together in the ground."

_Reek.. I'm just Reek._

In his last burst of clarity, Theon's eyes shift to the knife lying forgotten besides him. His right hand reaches out for it, and black spots appear in his vision as Ramsay chokes him, completely intent on his task. This is his last chance, his only opportunity. The only way to be freed from his master. He's ready for this, he tells himself - he's been ready ever since he looked at the knife in the first place. He grabs the knife - and this time his grip is sure. 

Ramsay only utters one word as Theon twists and forces the knife into his own chest. For a second, he feels nothing, no pain, or shock.. and suddenly, Theon is shaking, the blood hot and thick on his chest. Agonizing pain lances through him as Ramsay forces the knife away, and he quivers and shuts his eyes.

_I'm sorry, Jeyne. I couldn't save you. I can't ever save you. I'm weak - I've always been weak. I can only try to save myself._

_"Damn it!"_

He blinks hazily as he realizes he's no longer on the ground. Ramsay cradles him as he forces open the door, sprinting down the stairs with Theon in his tight grasp. "You can't _die_ on me, Reek," he hisses, in a mixed tone of anger and something oddly resembling fear. "Don't - don't die, _damn it._ "

There's a lightness to his chest that hasn't been present for years. Flashes of memories - being tied to the saltire, whipped viciously, flayed, tortured until he couldn't even remember his name - mix in with what seems like a past life. A life that Reek has never lived - a life that sends longing through him. It's all about to end. Finally.  _What is dead may never die,_ someone tells him, but the meaning is lost on him.

" _Fuck you, Reek, this is how you repay me?"_

Theon is distantly aware of Ramsay screaming in the background before he is set down. He can scarcely breathe, with the tightness in his chest, with the loss of blood. In a few moments, he will feel nothing at all. 

" _Fix him! FIX HIM, I said, or I'll flay you until you're begging for death! Reek, I.. I.."_

In the distance, someone is calling out a name. He feels himself standing from a great height, looking down into an endless chasm. It's pulling him in - and yet..

" _Reek? Reek, can you hear me? REEK!"_

The person calling out behind him seems oddly familiar. He can't think of who it is - and yet the name the person is saying strikes a chord inside of him. Slowly, Theon turns, and there is a gateway before him - only it's white, pure white, so he can see nothing through it. 

" _You're mine! Don't you fucking forget it! I am your master - I command you to open your eyes! Shut up, don't tell me to be quiet - shouldn't you be trying to fix him?"_

He steps towards the white unknown, feeling peace for the first time in years. It'll all be over soon. He'll meet that person, and it'll all end. 

" _Reek! Reek - "_

He steps through, and suddenly he is falling. 

The white is so blinding that Theon can't see a thing - he closes his eyes, letting the last links keeping him to Ramsay drop down - letting go of the pain, the emotions - 

" _Reek.."_

He opens his eyes.  

 _There_ is _a world beyond life,_ is the first thing he thinks in surprise. The person he once was would have hoped to end up in the Drowned God's halls - but no. The ceiling he stares up at seems oddly familiar. And the bed he's lying on - it feels utterly foreign, compared to the kennels and the dungeons, so he simply lies there, staring up. _It wouldn't be so bad, lying here forever._

"Theon, you're awake!"

No. 

 _It isn't - it can't be -_  

Theon bolts upright and turns in the direction of the cheerful voice, feeling sweat slide down his spine. It is Robb Stark - it is _Robb_ _Stark_ who is sitting besides him, and it is Robb Stark who leans forward and embraces him, wrapping him in a tight hug. The simple touch sends shock waves through him, and he simply sits there, blinking rapidly.

It is at that moment that tears spring to his eyes, along with another stunning realization. He's whole, healthy - his fingers, his toes, his teeth, every part of him - and the ever present pain that always torments him is gone. The hunger that always gnaws at his stomach has faded away. What kind of afterlife is this? An afterlife where he is remade into a man again - remade into Theon Greyjoy before the war began. And another confused thought, mixed in with apprehension - how can Robb even stand to touch him, after all he's done? He should hate him - and rightly so.

"You - " he manages to blurt out, his throat feeling better than it has in years, unscratched, the soreness gone - right before Robb unwraps his arms and leans backward.

"I was concerned," Robb admits, and then Theon realizes that this Robb is not quite Robb.

Before he left for the Iron Islands, to establish a treaty between his father and the Starks, the Robb he knew wore a weight unimaginably heavy: the bronze, iron crown. His eyes were ringed with shadows, his face drawn and slightly pale. And yet the Robb in front of him looks as cheerful as he can ever imagine him as, with his thick, red-brown hair and his bright blue eyes. A familiar, panicked voice rises up as he thinks that, his eyes ducking down.

_It was all in a past life - before I was Reek - before I was Ramsay's._

_I have to remember. Remember my name, remember who I am. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with weak._

_But Reek does not know Robb, and Robb does not know Reek. I cannot be Reek. Not here - not with him._

"No one expected you to faint before Bran was about to spar with Tommen - I had to bring you here."

Theon opens his mouth wordlessly and closes it again, feeling his head swim. Theon is dead, he definitely is dead - and Robb Stark died from Roose Bolton's dagger, so that's why he's sitting there - he's gone too. They are both dead then, and in some sort of afterlife that somehow put the two of them together.

 _But Bran.. Bran is alive,_ _Bran fled from me when - when -_

"I suppose you collapsed because you were exhausted, because it doesn't really make sense that you fainted from the heat. Maester Luwin said you had a bit of a fever, but you look fine now."

\- _when I took Winterfell._

"Theon? Are you alright? You seem a bit distracted."

Again, he opens his mouth. "R-Robb," Theon whispers, and he almost recoils from the feel of having a full set of teeth. Cautiously, he feels along his mouth with his tongue. He never did get used to eating without teeth; it was painful eating anything that wasn't soft or liquid-like. "Robb, how - who - where?"

He looks genuinely concerned, and Theon is struck by the _wrongness_  of that expression as Robb eyes him warily. In those days where he prayed for Robb to find him in the dungeons, he imagined their meeting a thousand times: Robb staring down at him with disgust, announcing that he would be granted death - but a quick, painless death from his sword, not a long, drawn out misery from Ramsay's flaying knives. Against all odds, there is no hatred in his stare as he watches Theon now. 

 _It isn't right. He should be condemning me._ It's simple, after all, at least from Ramsay Bolton's point of view.  _Do something wrong, get punished. Let justice play out. Why is he treating me like this?_

"Where are we?" he rasps finally. 

"In your room," Robb replies slowly. "You _did_ hit your head earlier, so you might be having some sort of memory loss - "

"Where?" he pleads. "Where?" He amends his statement and whispers, "King R - I - please - tell me where we are." His eyes dart around the room as he avoids eye contact, shivering despite the fact that he isn't cold.

Robb blinks slowly in confusion. "King? Are you asking for Robert Baratheon? And Theon, we're in your room.. in Winterfell - where else?"

Theon squeezes his eyes tightly shut, feeling his head pound. He has to be dead. He remembers it all - stabbing himself with the knife, being rushed to the maester - so he must be dead. But if he is, why is he in a twisted afterlife where everything seems to be.. everything is still..

He gains his senses slowly, as Robb looks at him with concern. "Robert Baratheon is dead," he croaks. "Winterfell is gone. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here." 

" _Theon,"_ says Robb with dismay. "What are you saying? He's talking with Father right now."

"F-father?"

Robb rolls his eyes then, and a wry smile appears on his face. "Come on, let's go outside. You need some fresh air to clear your brain, from the looks of it."

_And Ned Stark is dead._

"Robb, what's going on?" he asks desperately, looking up and staring into those Tully-blue eyes. He seizes on an explanation like a drowning man: this is one of the seven hell's, with everyone he knows who's died, and he's cursed with seeing them forever - but - 

If this is his own special hell, Robb Stark wouldn't be here with him. 

It is that simple fact that shakes him from his thoughts. Pure, honorable,  _noble_ Robb Stark, the King in the North: the one he always loved like a brother and more. _He wouldn't be with me._

In a daze, he lets Robb pull him to his feet, and that's when he becomes aware of his surroundings. He _is_ in his old room in Winterfell - and it doesn't even look close to being burned down. The clothes he wears are utterly foreign, and the closest memory he can conjure is when Ramsay forced him to pretend to be Theon Greyjoy for the ironborn. He gazes down at himself, staring with disbelief at the doublet he wears, with a golden kraken gleaming on the front. 

"Once you're done admiring yourself, we can go back to the sparring yard," Robb points out, his voice playful. 

"R-right," says Theon slowly. "The sparring yard."

He walks slowly, staring around him at the hallways of the castle. After a minute or two, Robb offers his shoulder to lean on, which Theon tentatively accepts. But he doesn't have difficulty walking - far from it. His back is straight, his feet are whole and unmaimed - and when they pass an open room, Theon gazes dazedly at the mirror propped there. His cheeks are no longer hollow, and his once sunken eyes are bright and alert. Even his hair is no longer white.

"Theon," says Robb impatiently. 

"S-sorry," he stammers, cringing instinctively. Robb stares back at him for a moment, before shaking his head. 

"Did you eat too much at last night's feast? You still.. you don't seem like yourself."

Theon forces a shaky smile to his face, still reeling inside. Another wild thought appears and he wonders for a moment if this isn't some cruel jape that Ramsay concocted. But even Ramsay cannot bring Robb back from the dead, so that can't be it. Theon doesn't know what's worse, that's he's having a fever and on the brink of death, or if he's been insane the whole time. 

_Reek, Reek, it rhymes with -_

No. 

_Robb does not know Reek, Reek does not know Robb. This is not Reek's life. Theon, my name is Theon._

If he is to spend his time like this, then he is determined to do it on his own terms. 

Every step he takes has him shaking slightly. Knowing that the dead are walking around him, and knowing that a dead person is supporting his weight right now is undeniably disturbing. If he doesn't know better, he would think that he's reliving his old memories; and yet, that revelation only serves to deepen his unease. 

When they step outside, his eyes fall on Bran, waving around a padded sword, and all the breath leaves his body. He sinks to the ground, overwhelmed by the sight of all the men chattering around the two boys fighting. _All dead. All dead._ At the sight of Rodrik Cassel, his hands twist up and he pulls at his own hair as memories he tried to once bury rise up again. 

 _Ser Rodrik holding out a hand; R_ _amsay Snow burying his sword in his arm, his army attacking._  

 _No, no, that wasn't me. Reek didn't see those things. Reek doesn't remember those memories. But I can't be Reek - not here, in Winterfell._ His panicked thoughts slip and slide over each other as he tries to understand. He isn't Theon anymore, and yet this is Theon's body, reminding him of memories Reek would never have. 

"Theon!" 

He blinks and Robb is shaking him, though gently enough that no one has yet to look at them. "What's going on?" 

"You need to tell me, Robb," he says wildly, the words suddenly spilling out. "Ramsay - Ramsay Bolton - where is he now? Where is he?" He waits for his master to stalk out from somewhere, announcing that it was all a game, a test to see if he remained loyal and remained Reek. When that doesn't happen, he shakes his head desperately.

"I.. I've never heard of him," replies Robb in bemusement. Theon gapes at him. "But Bolton.. didn't he once have a son named Domeric Bolton?"

As Theon struggles to ask another question properly, Robb looks up. "There - they've just finished," he says cheerfully. "Just, just wait here for a minute, alright? I'll see if that prince wants another go."

Theon just stares as he watches Robb walk off, calling out something to Rodrik Cassel and joining into the conversation as naturally as if he was there the whole time. He slowly sits down, trying to be invisible - though he doubts anyone will care.

When he sees Joffrey, he puts his head in his arms and mutters, "You're dead." Ramsay only mentioned it in passing once, when he laughed about something with poison and the young boy king. Theon was rather preoccupied with his own flayed finger at the time. "You're dead, and Ned Stark died because of you, and Robb Stark died because of you, and - " Theon gulps in a shuddering breath as he suddenly feels a rush of hatred. He almost yelps in surprise. He lost the ability to hate Ramsay months ago, when it was simply easier to keep his head down, and obey. Even when he attacked him, he did it out hopelessness, of a desire to simply get out of his situation. 

It was better, he reflects, to lose most feelings with Ramsay and become the creature his master wanted him to be.

Once Jeyne arrived, though.. 

He shakes those thoughts away. Instead, he closes his eyes and painstakingly begins to search back in his past. Several times, he shakes his head and digs his nails into his hand - another surprise, since Ramsay got rid of so many - when a particularly painful memory sears through his mind. Sitting in the courtyard, surrounded by so many men that he knows to be dead - and indirectly by his hand - is overwhelming, to say the least. Not to mention that a voice inside his head is whispering _Reek_ the whole time. Theon gets up to the burning of Winterfell before he can't think further, cringing even more as his own voice haunts him. 

Every voice in the courtyard passes right through his mind - meaningless chatter - until he hears Robb violently cursing. Theon lifts his head slowly and sees him jabbing a finger at the false king. _No - he's the prince right now._  Instinctively, he rises, and he's already heading towards Robb before he realizes what he's doing. 

As his hand reaches out and pulls Robb away, he blinks in surprise. _How did I know how to do that?_ Theon's halfhearted attempt barely does anything, and Robb shrugs his hand away, before heading towards Joffrey. At the same time that the hulking man besides the prince makes a threatening noise, Theon winces and feels a splitting headache rising. He stares through slitted eyes as Robb gesticulates wildly at the training master. Something about ordering for a nonblunted sword - 

Once again, his body moves forward of its own accord, and he pulls Robb away from the men around Joffrey, the splitting headache easing almost immediately. This time, he holds him tightly, listening to Robb's curses without really hearing them, as Joffrey leaves smugly.

"I could have taken him," says Robb petulantly, and Theon doesn't manage to come up with an answer to that. The pieces are slowly slipping together, along with his past revelation. 

_I haven't gone.. back.. have I?_

_Back to my past life?_

Even Jon Snow seems to notice how subdued Theon is for the rest of the day. In truth, though he is quiet throughout almost everything, his mind is racing frantically at every new person he sees. 

Almost everyone he passes by gives him a sick feeling - he is dead, she is dead, that whole family is dead - and there are crucial moments where Theon is tempted to tell someone what is happening to him. Seeing the Stark family is even worse; when Catelyn looks over him and her eyebrows narrow slightly, he wants to tell her that she was right all along, sending him to his father was Robb's biggest mistake. But instead of hatred coating her face, she simply walks away, barely giving him another glance after the first cursory one.

It isn't as if he can remember every single detail, but pieces and fragments are slowly slipping back into his mind. He gives up on reciting his rhymes, feeling stabs of indecision every time he does so. Along with the memories comes a feeling of dread, one that grows stronger the more he tries to shake it away. 

Something is going to happen, and yet every time he tries to remember, he fails to get any farther from the burning of Winterfell. Theon stays up all night, huddled on the ground against the bed - still wary of sleeping like that - trying to focus. And yet, all he can think of is seeing everything bursting into flames, with Ramsay's voice cutting into him: furious for daring to pretend to be Theon Greyjoy. When he finally falls asleep, he jolts awake with a strangled cry, terrified of waking back on the saltire, with Ramsay's face hovering in the shadows. 

Theon refuses to leave his room, rocking back and forth against the wall until Robb bursts in. An instinctive apology rises to his lips as he resists the urge to beg for forgiveness.  _This isn't him. This is a softer version - one who has not yet been hardened by war. The Young Wolf, they called him, but here the King still lives and Theon Turncloak does not exist._

"Why aren't you dressed yet?" Robb admonishes, narrowing his eyes down at Theon. He hastily stands up, his knees aching from sitting there for so long. "You don't want to miss the hunt, do you?" 

"Hunt..?" 

"Unless you want to stay behind," Robb laughs. 

Theon manages to keep silent as he rides besides Robb through the forest, but he can't help but stare at Joffrey's back every so often. The prince is loud, boastful, and smug besides his father, Robert Baratheon. Every time he looks at the two of them, he grips the reins to his horse so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He hasn't even ridden a horse since that time Ramsay sent him to Moat Cailin. 

"There!" Rodrik Cassel calls, and the party heads right. Theon struggles to make sense of what's going on as Robert Baratheon laughs loudly, his voice echoing in the forest. 

"Robb," he says desperately, trying to reach out at him. But Robb is distracted, his own eyes alight with the prospect of catching a wild boar. "I need to tell you something - "

He's left alone in the dust as everyone races towards the area Ser Rodrik is gesturing to. For a moment, Theon watches them go, tremors rocking through him and making him frozen. A dull pounding at his head is enough to prompt him to follow the riders, as he's struck by the similarity and differences of Ramsay's hunts. 

When at last they return, with a dead boar that Joffrey smiles proudly at, Theon feels as if he's almost getting used to riding a horse, with all his fingers wrapped around the reins. Once, he even manages to smile weakly at Robb as he claps him on the back, the feeling so foreign that he looks away immediately. 

Something lingers in the back of his mind, though, and only when everyone around him falls silent does the sound of women wailing reach his ears. Robb slides off his horse without hesitating and rushes into the castle as Ned Stark follows. He hesitates, still gripping the reins of his horse, as Joffrey yawns besides him and affects a look of supreme boredom. "Can't stand it when they make those noises," he says, to no one in particular. 

When the aching persists at the side of his head, he follows Robb from a distance, leaving his horse in the yard. The dread rises to a peak as he slowly walks faster, not even registering the fact that he's almost broken into a run. He hasn't moved this fast for months. The sickroom is overflowing with people, and he waits at the doorway for over a minute before he manages to step inside, keeping his head down in fear of offending someone. 

There is a sallow skinned, frail young boy propped up on a bed in the corner. His eyes are open, his mouth gaping wide in a silent scream. Theon feels his heart slow down to a stop as he sees Robb gripping his younger brother's hand, tears making his voice incomprehensible. Bran Stark is nearly unrecognizable compared to the young boy who sparred with a prince yesterday. Beyond the shock is a horror, as he suddenly remembers the younger Stark's fall. And the realization that -  _I could have stopped this, if I remembered. I could have prevented him from climbing that tower. Somehow. If I'd known. I should have known._

Theon staggers backwards and leans heavily against the hallway's walls, his breathing shallow.  _I can't take this, I don't understand what's going on._ For so long he relied on Ramsay, for someone in the Dreadfort to order him around. His sole purpose was to serve him, and nothing more. Here, he feels overwhelmed by everything in front of him. And in a pathetic moment of weakness, he wishes for nothing more than to see Ramsay.. to feel that deceptive calm and know his role. His purpose. 

He closes his eyes and a pain blossoms in his chest. Theon ignores it and clenches his hands together, his eyes fixed firmly shut, trying to regain sense, as the pain rises and burns, until he inhales in a desperate gasp. He clasps a hand to his chest, and feels nothing but his own steady heartbeat, beating faster with each second. 

 _"Reek!"_ someone snarls, and he's falling, falling, falling, his heart pounding with a thousand emotions, before he feels nothing at all. 

Theon opens his eyes to see Ramsay's dirty gray eyes fixed intently on him, and at the same time, a low throbbing from his chest causes him to double over on the bed he's lying on. His hands wrap around his arms instinctively, and he freezes as he realizes that he's awkwardly bracing his missing fingers. 

"You're awake, finally," Ramsay huffs besides him, sounding nothing but exasperated. "I've half a mind to punish you right now, but the maester says you need rest." Theon hunches over and begins to make a low, pained sound at the back of his throat. "In the meantime, we'll  _talk,_ Reek, and we'll discuss why you thought it was fit to try to stab me.. before stabbing yourself."

He doesn't hear anything else his master says. The ringing in his ears renders him deaf as he wordlessly forms the word  _no._ His dirty clothes and his own stench is inescapable; and the man with the sharp smile besides him removes any doubt and clears the shock hanging over him. 

He's back, again, in Ramsay's hold. And he's alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've all enjoyed the first chapter! Currently, with school starting for me soon, I'm not sure of how often I'll be able to update (but I'll aim for at least once a week). 
> 
> Any feedback would be greatly appreciated, seeing as I'm aiming to focus mainly on Thramsay/Throbb in this fanfic. (I'd love to read your theories on Theon's ability to move forwards/backwards in time!) However, if there's a specific pairing that you'd all like to see (and it's already in the tags) I'll make an effort to focus on those too. ^^


	2. TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _\- the same slipping sense of wrongness scalds him inside -_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say before the next chapter begins that I'm amazed at the support this story has gotten. All your comments are honestly so supportive, thank you so much! (Is it natural to get this excited? XD) 
> 
> Sorry about the extreme delay - I don't know how it took me so long to write this. Hopefully the flow of the story doesn't seem forced (though honestly, I've edited it so many times I can't tell the difference anymore XD). I'll try to update again in the later weeks, if school doesn't pull me apart first.
> 
> Note: Some the show/book events may be blended together — so this fanfic might not follow the book events completely.

**TWO**

A bone-chilling shiver slips down Theon's back as he waits on the saltire, not daring to move. Though the light is undeniably dim around them, he's aware of every sound, every movement, every feeling - including the new collar wrapped tightly around his neck, the way his ears ring.. and most of all, his master's body only inches from his own. The deep, even breathing is deceptive; he knows without looking up that Ramsay is watching him as intently as if he might vanish at any minute. He doesn't really trust him, not anymore. _If he ever did_.

Theon trembles, as he struggles to keep his mind blank. He stares blindly down at the ground stained in dried blood, wondering blankly if it's his own from another session, or from another unlucky victim that attracted Ramsay's wrath. And yet, memories flicker faintly, refusing to fade.

* * *

His face is streaked with messy tears as Ramsay taps a foot on the floor, heat radiating from his master's body. As he's forced to face Ramsay, his stomach growls in hunger, his fingers twitch of their own accord, and his scattered, aching teeth grind together. All serving as painful reminders of who he really is. Not Theon Greyjoy - not a ward or hostage of Ned Stark. His eyes duck down to look at the bed he's on before he looks away.

 _A dream, then, all a dream, he was just a dream_ -  and it is only when Ramsay's grip tightens, his nails digging painfully into his skeleton of an arm, that he realizes he's been murmuring words out loud. He clamps his mouth shut too late, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. In an effort to distract his frantic thoughts, he focuses on the low throbbing in his chest. At the same time that he jerks instinctively away from Ramsay, he remembers, horror flooding him as he relives stabbing himself. 

The first thought he has isn't relief to be alive, nor surprise. It's terror - terror from the knowledge that he survived, and terror knowing that he's now at the mercy of Ramsay again. He wants nothing more than to melt into the wall behind him, and disappear once again. 

"What was just a dream, Reek?" His master's words are quiet, soothing. He's leaning just barely towards him, still sitting calmly on the chair. And yet the grip on his arm will surely be leaving another purple bruise to appear later. "And  _who_ was just a dream?" 

Theon doesn't dare look at Ramsay; instead, he ducks his head and waits for him to sweep the relaxed mask off and reveal a storm of anger. "Well? I'm waiting," he prompts, and Theon quivers despite himself. He lets out a shuddering gasp, trembling, and Ramsay laughs softly. He doesn't quite manage to feel shame from his reaction. Shame - something stripped away slowly with a flaying knife, and eased away by deceptively kind words long ago. 

"F-forgive me, m'lord, forgive m-me," he begs, his arm aching from the intensity of Ramsay's grip. The desolate misery, the longing to end it all has fled in the sight of Ramsay's frigid stare. There is only a blinding self preservation surging through his system, causing the words to spill out of him. "I wasn't faithful, I wasn't loyal, I'm sorry - please forgive me, I'm sorry - " 

There are no words to express what Theon is desperately trying to convey, but somehow Ramsay's hold on him relaxes. "There will be time to punish you later, when you've recovered - somewhat," he says dismissively, never straying from his neutral, level tone. For Theon, it is even more disturbing to hear. He knows better than anyone that the longer Ramsay's rages are stretched out, the worse the effects will be when he finally snaps. "Now, I want you to tell me, pet - aren't you going to be a good dog and obey your _master_?"

* * *

 There is a sickness twisting at him inside, making him nauseous as Ramsay picks something up from a small set of tools. Theon blinks several times as Ramsay asks lazily, "Is this not to your liking?"

Neither of them move as Theon opens and closes his mouth, at loss of what to say. He opts for a shaky "of course, m'lord" that prompts Ramsay to laugh. With his back turned, he can't read his expression, but the cruel mirth is clear in his voice when Ramsay says, "I even sent my dear lady wife away for the night, so I could bring you down here and watch over you for the next few hours... but you don't seem pleased, Reek.  _Rest and recovery is what he needs,_ the maester said. What better place to recover than the most familiar place in this castle - and what better place for me to judge you?" He turns and crosses the room slowly. "I can be merciful, Reek, if you tell me the truth.. if you tell me how you're _feeling_." 

Theon gapes in shock at his master. To tell him how he truly feels is asking for another finger to be flayed and cut off. 

"I'm s-sorry," Theon responds automatically, his words tripping over each other. He summons as much strength as he can to look directly up, meeting Ramsay's eyes. "I -I'm grateful, m'lord, so thankful - "

To his horror, Ramsay shifts forward, his breath hot and with the smell of wine as he looks down at him. A heavy, calloused hand brushes against his own. He resists the urge to turn his head away and shudder. As it is, a current of fear ripples through him as Ramsay grasps his hand tightly. 

Every thought scatters as Ramsay whispers softly, "Every word from that filthy, _disgusting_ mouth is a _fucking joke_.. isn't it?" He leans over him, a mad gleam sparking in his eyes, daring him to deny it. "I know every thought in your empty head, Reek. After I've saved your worthless skin, you're trying to feed me a lie?"

He lets Ramsay's whispers wash over him in a single, cruel wave, struggling to find a proper response to his accusation. Theon gives up at once - to agree is admitting Theon is a liar, and denying it says  _he_ is a liar. Instead, he focuses on his scars: he thinks of the bandages wrapped around his chest, the care that was placed so carefully into keeping him alive. It isn't as if he doesn't realize how lucky he is. How grateful he should be. How happy, how thankful, for having such a just lord. And yet, a traitorous part of him cannot stop asking -  _wh_ _at madness made me wish to return to this?_

_Why couldn't you let me die?_

_Why can't you just kill me now?_

Theon hangs his head as he loses his false courage, wishing desperately that he's alone. Even in the near darkness, Theon can sense that his master is smiling. He struggles not to imagine it - the way those lips must be pulled up, how those gray eyes must be gleaming, but his mind paints a mental image all the same.

He doesn't want to think too much about that fact: how Theon knows Ramsay more than he knows himself, than anyone else in Westeros. How, somehow, in the darkness of the dungeons, over time that blurred into centuries, he learned to sense Ramsay's dark, violent emotions.. the way his sick mind worked when given the chance to spread pain.

Theon struggles to come up with an answer that won't set Ramsay off. "Please," he chokes, his voice fraying at the edges. "I only want - I only wish to serve you - Reek, my name is - "

Ramsay's grip tightens, and Theon feels fresh pain rise as his remaining fingers twitch, reminding him of all he's lost. "You served me quite well yesterday, when you bled out like a stuck pig on the ground," he sneers. He lets out a low breath, the sound sharp and derisory. It's gone as quickly as it appears, and Ramsay's spare hand lashes out, slapping him on the cheek. Theon strains against his bonds as a pure instinct, even though his cheek barely stings from Ramsay's lackluster attempt. Despite all his threats, his master is careful not to hurt him - at least, not physically. 

After a tense, frozen moment, Ramsay's mouth twitches.

"See, Reek, this isn't going well at all. A better lord would be able to judge you, condemn you - but I must admit.. knowing of your faithful service before seems to have clouded my judgement." Ramsay's voice is bright and terrible as he jerks Theon's head up by the chin, holding him in place as he stares down at him. "Shall I let my lord father decide? No, better yet - I'll have Damon call Arya down. As my lady wife, this is a perfect opportunity for her to make an important decision." Ramsay laughs softly, his words sharp as ice. "And while she's down here, I think there'll be enough time for me to question her role in your treason." 

There is a sudden lurch in his stomach that makes his mouth fall open as Ramsay steps away. "Did you know I've told no one of your pathetic show yesterday?" Ramsay muses, deliberately stretching out his words. "Now I see it's for the best. Once I've discovered what role she played, I think I'll take her on a hunt. I suppose a tragic accident might shock the North, but a wench like her won't be missed for long -  "

"P-please, don't - don't hurt her - "

"Say please one more time, Reek, and I'll let my hounds tear dear Arya apart."

Even the desperation spiking through his blood doesn't stop him from recognizing the faint jealousy hidden behind Ramsay's words. Theon doesn't understand it, and he lets the curiosity drop away as he strains against the bonds. He ignores the way his skin tears, letting blood seep through the ropes around his wrists. He soaks in the pain, letting it sharpen his dull vision as his eyes start to burn. Jeyne's echoing cries begin to ring through his mind, despair distorting the sounds.

And Theon has no chance to question why he's doing this, why he's suddenly protecting her when she's just another girl, a lost girl to be played with by Ramsay Bolton and then tossed away when her role is finished... when he should be utterly focused on saying the right things to save himself. There's no time for him to wonder why Robb's resigned smile flashes through his mind - someone who's dead to him in body and soul. _You're trying, Theon,_ he mouths from a faraway distance, but he isn't Theon, not anymore, and he shoves the image away before it can confuse him more. 

All he can do is splutter desperately and beg and plead and  _cry_ \- because that's all he  _can_ do, as the broken, miserable creature he is. 

"She isn't - there was nothing - I haven't even spoken one word to her - please, m'lord - it was Reek, just Reek - p-punish me, hurt m-me, I held the knife myself - "

"I never knew my Reek was so honorable. I certainly didn't see this side of you when you helped the ironborn at Moat Cailin march straight to their own flaying. What happened to the sniveling creature that would do anything to save his own skin? To do anything to play the role of my dog? Ah, Reek, you're silent now. It seems I won't be getting anything else out of you."

He is too weak to shake his head, and he is too weak to tell the truth. He cannot rebel, and yet there something is blocking him - he cannot serve Ramsay. The indecision rips at him as Ramsay talks on and on. He has no strength, but he cannot give his master the obedience he needs.

It doesn't matter anyway.

Ramsay understands now. 

_Jeyne, Jeyne, it rhymes with pain._

_What have I done?_

Ignoring Theon's begging, Ramsay leans closer and slips a knife through the ropes binding Theon against the saltire easily, and Theon falls to the ground, scrambling to push himself up. But his arms shake, trembling, and his nerves scream in protest. He feels the bandages around his chest twisting as he sucks in a breath painfully. Ramsay steps back as Theon shivers and shakes, kneeling before his master.

"Allow me to fetch one, last gift to you, Reek - Arya Stark. That's right. Take the wench with you, take her and run. You were willing to hold a knife against me for her, no one can question your devotion - your  _undying_ love for the last Stark you'll ever see. I'll give you four minutes of a head start. Four minutes - four minutes I wasted bringing your sniveling self to the maester, so four minutes for you to run. And when she's dead, when my dogs have ripped her insides apart, I'll fetch another whore and make her my wife. Another dear  _Arya Stark_."

He doesn't have to look up to know Ramsay is grinning. Both of them know Ramsay's threats stem from Theon's reactions from before - the venom is feigned, the threats are empty. What's playing out before his eyes is a show, nothing more - a shadow of his true intentions. And yet, despite knowing this, he feels himself stumbling right into Ramsay's trap. 

"N-n-n-no - " Theon says, his eyes watering as Ramsay turns to leave the room. "Wait.. wait - WAIT - it's me -  _IT'S ME -_ "

Theon tries to crawl forward and gives up, tears dripping onto the dirty ground. For a moment, it seems as if everything else has faded away, so that even his harsh breathing is gone - there are only his pleas cutting through the air. "I wanted to escape," he sobs, choking on every syllable. He doesn't even know if Ramsay's listening.  _But he is - he always is._

"I didn't want to see her like that, I couldn't take it. I'm sorry, m'lord, I don't understand why I picked it up - you've been nothing but merciful and kind. But it wasn't her fault - it was me, always, forever. I couldn't keep - I couldn't keep living like that, I had to escape, I had to get out. Arya was just - she was just _there_." His chest heaves, his breathing shallow and desperate. 

"And when I saw R-Robb - when I was with him - I wanted - _needed_ - to be Reek, not him, not the Turncloak,  _I swear it_ \- I'm yours, yours, m'lord,  _please_." Theon swallows heavily, his tears tasting of bitter salt. His words are so fragmented that they're nearly incomprehensible. "I was weak, I wanted to escape. But I..."

Theon lifts his head, his sentence suddenly dying off as he realizes what he's spluttered out.

The anger slashed so fiercely in Ramsay's expression has him shaking. And yet, his confession has left him drained and empty, and something inside of him seizes and latches on to the fury. 

_Your last chance. He's furious with you. There isn't a chance you'll return from this. You can't. He'll kill you. He has to._

_It'll all be over soon._

The familiar mix of resignation and acceptance wrenches at him, but Theon takes it in. It has been so long since he felt anything but fear and desperation. He sucks in another shallow breath and chokes out another stuttering sentence:

"I know I.. I know I deserve this - but.. Jeyne - Arya - she doesn't - "

He drops his head, his eyes clenched shut, as he waits for Ramsay to storm towards him, for a beating that'll surely finish him off. Something permanent, impossible to return to. He imagines it, the wound in his chest twisting and tearing him apart, before finally, finally, letting him go. 

Three brisk footsteps, and suddenly Ramsay is pulling him upright by the hair and shoving him backwards. He goes sprawling onto the floor, his sore body sending pinpricks of pain through every nerve. Theon stares up in shock as Ramsay crouches besides him. '

"Don't you understand, Reek?" Ramsay says quietly. "If my wife dies, I wouldn't shed a tear. There are a hundred whores out there praying for the chance to share my bed. But _you_.."

And here, Ramsay's face seems to light up from within, his thick hair falling forwards as he leans over Theon. A smile curls his lips as he looks down at him. "Yes.. I've spent too much time to bother with replacing you." With a sharp tug, he pulls at Theon's white, matted hair, letting the brittle strands drop down. "How many hours have I spent with you, how many hours has it taken to make you into the perfect dog?"

Theon is transfixed. He stares up at Ramsay, something deep-seated inside of him searing at his heart. He isn't sure if he's understanding correctly.

"You're  _mine_." The word is spat sharply, and Theon flinches as Ramsay leans even closer to his face, tilting his head as if searching for something. "Not my father's, or Arya's, or Robb Stark's.  _I_ created you, lest you forget.  _I'm_ the only one who gives a damn about you - about who you are now." Ramsay looks away for a moment, his gaze turning distant for the briefest of moments. "I can tell you don't understand, from that dim look on your face. It's fine. I don't  _need_ you to understand. I just need you to serve me - and if you don't, I'll flay another finger. You have plenty left."

The only explanation for the hollowness inside of him is that the cold from the dungeon floor has seeped inside of him, freezing him from head to toe. 

Ramsay grasps at his jaw, forcing his mouth open and examining him as if he's looking over a piece of meat. "You really are the ugliest creature I've ever known," Ramsay exhales. "But I judge my bitches on their loyalty, not how beautiful they are. I've never taken a pretty pup over a loyal one. Did I ever tell you? If one of them shows any defiance against me, I leave them out of the Dreadfort to fend for themselves. It's the only way to train a dog, Reek -  _Reek. Look at me_."

Theon pulls his stare away from a point in the ceiling, looking up at Ramsay instead. "Reek," he says softly, and his voice is restrained, an indecipherable emotion slipping through. "You must know that you're the only thing that's ever belonged to me. That's mine." Ramsay pulls away just barely as Theon feels his throat closing up, and his voice is slower, so quiet that Theon has to strain his ears. "Truly, you are the only one I've ever - "

Something crumbles inside of Theon, and he stares up dully, fresh tears leaving streaks through the dirt on his face. Someone's face streaks across his mind, and somehow, a stormy day appears -  along with a young king not yet a man, but no longer a boy. Memories laced with pain, words twisted with poison. The last time he ever came close to hearing those words, conveyed in a quick hug, a simple clasp of hands - the last time he could ever pretend to be a Stark.

 _The last time he ever could feel sure that someone loved him_ \- and all the while, as he relives the moment, something snarls and hisses at him for daring to hold Theon Greyjoy's memories. Then even that voice fades away, and he's left staring up at Ramsay, at a loss of what to say.  

Something is tugging at him, a persistent pull that races through him even as he tries to hold back a fresh sob. It's a foreign feeling that is overshadowed quickly by the monstrous face of his master. "Don't cry, Reek," Ramsay says, and he grins widely. "You understand now, don't you?" 

"Why - why me?" he manages to force out, his scars throbbing all over his body. His whole body suddenly shakes, the alien feeling growing stronger.  _You could have let me bleed in Winterfell -_ a wild, disjointed thought.  _You could have let Theon Greyjoy burn._ "Why - " 

He senses, rather than hears, Ramsay's response. A heaviness spreads as Ramsay speaks, the words muted as if from underwater. He tries to move - he tries to blink - but even his body has become numb. _You didn't have to give me a new life,_ he thinks in agony. Black lines run through his vision, multiplying until he's sure the light from the lantern has been snuffed out, and the dungeons are gone, Ramsay is gone, and he's  _falling_ -

" - he couldn't have just fallen," someone's arguing, and Theon sucks in a single harsh breath as he looks up. 

Arya Stark stands before him, her voice loud and fierce - and yet muted with despair. Before her stands Sansa Stark, her vibrant red hair tossed back over her shoulder as she replies hotly. "It's the only explanation," she breathes back, and she sighs for a moment. "We'd best head back to our rooms for now. Septa Mordane will want us.."

" _Bran is in a coma_. I'm not doing any needlework while he's unconscious." Arya snaps back, storming down the hallway.

Sansa huffs and makes to go after her, before she pauses, shooting a wary look at Theon. "Are you all right?" she asks, but she gets no response.

Theon sinks to the ground, only dimly aware of how he's dressed in warm, thick clothes, the aching chill inside of him vanished. Every nerve inside of him screams silently in protest as he tries to process the fact that he's upright - not face up - outside the sickroom in Winterfell -  _not looking into the eyes of Ramsay Bolton._ In front of Arya Stark,  _gray eyes, not brown._ His eyes burn as hot tears blur his vision, his hands shaking before his eyes. "No," he rasps slowly, and his voice is hoarse and feeble. "No - no -  _nononono -_ "

Theon grips his stomach, leaning heavily against the wall as he feels sick. As he retches, sweat beads his forehead and he struggles not to crumple up. 

It's impossible. 

He's afraid to open his eyes. But when he blinks, he's still staring down at his hands, and he feels his throat contracting as he works to say something and make sense of it all.

_It was all a dream._

_How - how am I here again?_

Theon closes his eyes and then opens them slowly, looking down at his hands pressed over his stomach.  _Ten fingers._ He closes them again.  _I passed out in the dungeons, I must have. I'm dreaming again._ Opens them.  _Ten fingers._ Closes them.  _He was speaking to me alone._ Opens them.  _Dark hair, not white._

He doesn't know how long he stands there, shakily opening and closing his eyes, quivering every time he does so, as if he half expects to be on the ground once more. But he doesn't wake up, and when he hears voices once more, he's still leaning against the wall. The same slipping sense of wrongness scalds him inside, and when Theon can take no more, he forces himself forward and stumbles down the hallway. 

_I'm the only one who gives a damn about you - about who you are now._

Somehow, his feet take him back to his room, and somehow, the hallways are eerily silent. Theon places a hand on the door and stumbles in, taking in everything. He blinks and blinks and he summons enough energy to wipe away his tears. It's all the same, just as how he experienced it in his dream.  _But it feels so real, it feels so real._ He closes the door gently, clenching and unclenching his hands, waiting for pain that never comes. 

"Pain," says Theon finally, slowly, exhaling the word as if it's the only thing he's ever known. 

With Ramsay, pain was all that he had. 

_You're the only thing that's belonged to me. That's mine._

The time it takes for him to cross the room and find his best and only knife takes a second and an eternity. In the end, he grips it with a ghostlike strength, wondering blankly when was the last time it was honed and sharpened. Theon marvels briefly over the fact that he hasn't dropped it out of hysteria yet as he stares down at it, willing the false strength to stay in his shaking body. 

_Truly, you are the only one I've -_

Theon makes no sound when he initially presses the knife against his palm, watching blood well up almost immediately, bright and beautiful. The pain breaks through his fog a second later, and he makes out a strangled noise. But Theon doesn't let go, feeling a dizziness spiral through him that's agonizingly familiar. "This is real," he states, and he drops the knife onto the ground, clenching his fist tightly. Blood drips down onto the ground as he repeats, "This is real," and the pain is nothing as he begins to laugh, doubling over until he's coughing.

"This is real," Theon grits out, and this time, he holds back his tears, the blood staining his clothes as he curls in on himself. "This is real. This is real.  _This is real_."

* * *

Robb finds him in the hallways of Winterfell, wandering with a blank stare and a tightly clenched hand, ignoring the steady bleeding. They stare at each other in silence, neither of them moving for a long while. Then Robb holds out his hand, a steady persistence in his deep blue eyes. 

 _This is real,_ he thinks, his throat closing up.  _This is real._

He steps forward.  _This is real._

And he takes Robb's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things should be picking up soon! ^-^
> 
> If you have any time, I'd love to read your reviews in the comments. I'm always trying to improve my writing so constructive criticism always helps!


	3. THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is real, and it doesn't matter that a part of him still cringes away from the bed, from the fur cloak, from his own body._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to everyone! 
> 
> My apologies in advance for this chapter being so short - I guess I wanted to get out another update as a Christmas present ^-^ 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

**THREE**

Theon kneels before the weirwood tree in silence as Robb stands to his right. They are both quiet as Theon gazes down at his reflection. Despite his own blank look, for a moment, he can almost see someone else gazing back at him: someone always smiling, always joking, for all the world looking like he'd never cared for anything at all.

He clenches his left hand and a deeper pain stabs at him, deeper than the shallow wound on the palm of his hand.  _You were always smiling,_ he thinks, his eyes focused only on his own image, leaning towards the frozen pond.  _Smiling, smiling, smiling._

When did that smile dissolve into a grimace of hate? When did those glares melt into sunken stares? Crouching at the edge of the pond, time slows to a standstill as his lips part and move soundlessly. Slowly, haltingly, he forces his face into a semblance of a grin, a grin that looks forced after one glance. Theon blinks, his smile drops, and he turns away, blinking rapidly. 

Then Robb kneels besides him, his presence suddenly so familiar and alien at the same time that Theon cringes away. He cannot forget the way Bran stared at him, the way the two miller boys writhed as they tried to get away. He cannot forget the times he curled within himself in his cell, wishing that someone would offer him justice with a sharpened sword. 

"What happened?" Robb breathes, his own voice quiet and hushed. He too stares down at the pond, his face unblinking and undeniable concern reflecting in his eyes. "It can't be - Bran." His voice catches on the last word, and with an effort, he forces it out, as Theon feels his throat tighten. "Something.. something happened before the fall."

Theon opens his mouth again and falters. It is not just that his confession would be laughable, even to Robb. It is that some part of him is still holding onto the way Robb is looking at the pond, his expression soft and open. He doesn't know how that part exists, doesn't know how anything besides pain and fear exists within the hollow shell that remains inside of him. "I.." he rasps, curling his fingers. "I don't know," he says finally, his voice dwindling pathetically. "I don't know who I am."

Robb's face changes, from concern to bewilderment and back into concern. Theon stares harder at himself as Robb does too, looking at their mirror images without turning their heads once. They are silent once more, and Robb raises no questions, nothing at all. Then Robb's hand finds his, and Theon sees a flash of surprise in his reflection's face and his throat works frantically, at loss of what to say. 

Robb's hand is the only source of warmth in the godswood, and for the first time, Theon wonders what the old gods are thinking. If they know at all who he is, how he's changed. If they know he's nothing but a traitor, the one who led to Winterfell being burnt down - 

His thoughts come to a sudden stop as he closes his eyes, refusing to look at his own reflection. He finds himself shaking, trembling, frozen as his eyes are clenched shut. Minutes pass as he remains there, frozen, Robb's hand covering his right hand - a persistent anchor. At last, he looks once more at his glazed eyes, his trembling lips. "I'm  _not_ him, I'm not," Theon gasps out, his words nearly hysterical.  _I don't deserve you besides me,_ he nearly says, and yet he is too cowardly to say it.  _I don't deserve your comfort, I destroyed your home, drove your brothers to their deaths._

He imagines Ramsay appearing on his left, holding out his hand and pulling him up. He imagines the dark, thick hair of his reflection fading to a pale white, his full set of teeth crumbling. He imagines his own reflection fading, drowning, vanishing, and someone else taking his place. Someone - 

Robb's grip tightens and Theon's thoughts falter. 

"You don't think you're.. Theon Greyjoy?" 

Theon echoes Robb's small laugh with a shaky laugh of his own.

"Who was the one with me for ten years, then?" Robb asks. "Who was the one who gave me bruises while we sparred together, who was the one who once admitted he wished to be married to my sister - "

Theon turns quickly, his thoughts blank for a second as he blurts out, "I said that as a joke, I didn't really believe that."

Then he's staring at Robb, registering what he's just said. "It _is_ you, Greyjoy," Robb says, letting a mocking, playful tone slip into his voice. "Who else would be so brash that they'd think they were worthy of Sansa Stark?" And Theon has no time to think as Robb rises suddenly, his hand dropping away. Quickly, he scrambles to his feet too, and they face each other in the godswoods. "She'll be promised to a northern lord, someone who can fight as well as he can rule his lands. Certainly not someone like you."

"I can fight just as well as Cassel," Theon says, his voice quavering just barely. He nearly thinks of Rodrik Cassel's face, the way he struggled to execute him - 

Robb seizes it and latches onto the tremor in his voice immediately. "Is that so?" Then, as he grabs Theon's arm and pulls him away from the weirwood tree, his own thoughts twist in confusion. He doesn't understand, was just thinking about  _Reek_ a minute ago, and he follows Robb, disorientated. 

As they settle in a walk, Theon feels himself beginning to hunch over, but Robb lengthens his strides so that he has no choice but to hurry faster. It is still dark, still utterly silent, the cries of the women in Winterfell silent for now. And as Robb begins to talk once more, his voice slightly hushed, he remembers Robb leaning forwards to gaze at Bran's sickly pale figure. He's choosing to try to  _comfort_ Theon, right after he's learned his brother may never speak again.

 _And things are going to get worse -_ those words echo back at him in a detached way. 

"I'm not - you shouldn't be doing this," he finally manages to say. "You shouldn't waste - your time on me."  _More than a waste of space - a waste of space that single handedly tore down Winterfell, tore it down when you were off fighting battles as the King in the North._ "There are other things," he manages to say, before Robb's face hardens. 

"There you go, claiming that you're not Theon Greyjoy - and you want me to just ignore it?" His eyes flash and dart towards Theon's limp hand. "I find you wandering the halls, blood dripping from your hand -  _and you don't want me to do anything about it?"_ He steps forward, and Robb lowers his voice again. "You haven't been the same since yesterday, since - you've barely even smiled once, and - "

_I'm not the same, I've been living a different life for years. You wouldn't believe me if I told you._

Words linger at the tip of his tongue. He's never been able to do anything, not with Ramsay, and not when he has every freedom imaginable.  _You can't do this? You can't pretend that you're alright, not even for Robb?_ He sees Robb's creased brow, his narrowed eyes as if from a faraway distance.  _You don't want him to have anything to do with you, but you're saying you don't know yourself and acting like a miserable fool._

And he is, but - 

"What  _is_ it?"

 _But_ - 

"I was just thinking of the Iron Islands," Theon finally says, raising his voice over Robb's. "And - it's stupid, it really is, but - "

_Every lie is from a twisted truth._

"I've never belonged here." There. Words he's never said, words he would never say. "Even the bastard, Jon Snow, has more of a place with you and the other Starks than I do." 

Words get easier every time he says them. He never uttered them once in Winterfell, but to Ramsay - for Ramsay, in the dungeons -

Robb's face has gone blank, his expression undeniably confused. It's out of nowhere, so unexpected that of _course_ he doesn't understand. Theon forges on. He doesn't have any strength left to feel ashamed.

"I'm a ward of your father, but we both know I'm a hostage. I've always been a hostage." He raises his bloodstained hand and presses it to his neck. "I'm here so my father doesn't rebel again. I'm not a Stark, I've never been." He drops his hand and tilts his head, forcing himself to pull up those memories of Balon Greyjoy, of his clean rejection and his disdain when Theon arrived with Robb's treaty proposal. _Not that my presence here would really have done anything._ "Expendable."

Those words leave him as drained as if Ramsay's knives had just carved their mark yet again onto his chest. He drops his head, his legs weak as he waits for Robb to step away, for his expression to inevitably change. Then suddenly he's striding forward, and Theon braces himself -

Robb slams his fist hard into the side of Theon's arm, and he stumbles back as Robb's face flares a dark red. "Then don't smile," he snaps furiously, and he can only blink before Robb wraps his arms around Theon in a tight, bruising hug. "Don't smile, and joke about everything, and don't - don't drink and go off with Kyra. Did you think you were being strong, like an  _ironborn,_ keeping your damn feelings to yourself? Don't  _smile_ all the damn time, Greyjoy,  _don't smile_ and pretend you don't care about a damn thing - don't pretend like we're so different."

Theon's throat closes up as he begins to tremble, shaking once more. "I'm five years older than you, Stark," he mumbles as he hugs Robb back, pushing back all his thoughts away in favor for not thinking at all. 

"I'll be the lord of Winterfell, Greyjoy," Robb snaps back, "and I'm nearly as tall as you."

After a moment, Robb gingerly steps back, his face still a mix of emotions. "It doesn't matter what your father does. I'm not going to - I'm never going to order for your - we're  _brothers_. How - how long have you been thinking like that?" 

Theon coughs and looks away. He musters up a weak smile. "I.. I don't know." A part of him is still surprised that Robb accepted it so readily - his explanation that he would've never uttered aloud. "I.. I just exaggerated it, honestly." He glances at Robb and sees an odd expression lingering on his face before he clears his throat. 

When Robb insists for him to follow him to the kitchens and get something to eat, Theon follows silently without question. His frantic thoughts have dulled, his mind exhausted from thinking of so many parallels. As he relaxes his hand, the wound smarts and burns, a constant reminder that  _this is real._

 _You can pretend,_ a voice whispers inside of him. _For Robb Stark, you can pretend to be him._

When Robb comes to a stop, Theon's tugged out of his thoughts and his footsteps falter for just a moment. 

Jon Snow looks at both of them, his face expressionless. "What are you doing out so late, Snow?" Robb questions, and the bastard steps away, his eyes barely sparing a glance for Theon, just the faintest flicker of dislike showing. Theon remembers a time when they sparred on the yard, Theon himself trying to provoke him with curses and taunts, both of them grimacing at the sight of each other. He always reminded himself of how he was above Jon, at least, to comfort himself, favoring himself above the grim-faced bastard.

Now Theon feels nothing at all as he looks at him - there is only a lingering exhaustion as he tries not to think of Ramsay, as the word  _Snow_ sparks a memory of how Ramsay reacted when his father reminded him of his bastard status. He keeps his gaze averted as Jon and Robb trade a few words, before Jon walks away, his steps careful and quiet. "We're all.. hoping," Robb says in the silence left behind. He doesn't look at Theon at all. "About.. Bran."

"He'll wake up," Theon says without thinking. Robb looks at him in surprise, at hearing the assurance in his voice, and Theon blanches slightly. "Bran is strong."  _And resourceful. He managed to hide from me when my ironborn searched for him in Winterfell._

"It may just be me, but.. everything is just moving quickly, of late." 

 _Robb,_ he thinks, as memories stagger over each other, one by one.  _I want to warn you. I want to tell you - everything._

_I would change everything, if I could. As Theon Greyjoy -_

The realization hits him as suddenly as one of Ramsay's blows and he freezes, hardly daring to believe it. 

_This is real, this is real. And if this is my past, and if I could do something about it all, about everything -_

"He'll wake up," Theon repeats suddenly, hearing a new conviction in his voice. "Just believe me, please. He  _will._ "

If he stays, if he could change it all - he feels the realization spark through him and fuel him, dissolving the weariness. And it's that thought that keeps him moving as he eats with Robb, leaning against the wall, not even registering the rich, warm food as his own thoughts distract him. 

* * *

He paces around in his room an hour later, the elation that so briefly flooded through him dulling. 

_There is no guarantee that this will affect anything. There is no guarantee that I'll even stay here long enough to - to change anything. I don't even know if the events here will affect my.. future._

But he can't keep doing this. He can't keep drowning in his own self pity when - Theon closes his eyes and exhales sharply as he thinks of everyone at Winterfell, everyone who's lost their lives, either indirectly or directly by his hand. Someone, someone is giving him a chance, to change _something._ To stop everything, to stop _himself_. He looks down at his hands, past the blood and the calluses and sees something else. 

He remembers the warmth of Robb's hand, the way he looked at him so honestly. Instead of tearing himself apart over his mistakes..  _no one here knows. If I change my past, no one will ever know of what I did._

Theon feels something inside of him twist as he tilts his head back, holding in the tears. It doesn't matter that he doesn't know who he is - it doesn't matter at all. Because here, he's Theon Greyjoy, and Robert Baratheon lives, Eddard Stark is alive, and Robb Stark still draws breath. 

For Robb, he can pretend that there is no uncertainty holding him back. For Robb, he can keep going on. _This is real,_ and it doesn't matter that a part of him still cringes away from the bed, from the fur cloak, from his own body. This is real, and that means he can still change something. Anything. 

Even if, at the end of the day, he'll look over his shoulder one more time, expecting to see Ramsay Bolton's face staring back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for reading! 
> 
> I would honestly love to hear your feedback - this chapter was the hardest yet. Be sure to tell me if you like the direction this story is going or not! <3


End file.
